


these eyes don't shine half as bright

by anneweaver



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide Attempt, the izzy/victoria and lance/bobbi are mostly background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:30:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneweaver/pseuds/anneweaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the first New Year’s Eve he’s gonna spend with somebody other than himself in the past two years. The last time he hadn’t been alone for New Year’s, he had been the host of the party. With Bobbi. Back when they still pretending to have a functional marriage.<br/>Back then, he could willingly keep his nightmares at bay. The sound of fireworks during Christmas didn’t startle him. There were no pills on his nightstand.<br/>It really feels like a lifetime ago, sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these eyes don't shine half as bright

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for heavy discussions of a suicide attempt and some (very) brief discussions of PTSD. Also, I feel like I need to say that Lance and Izzy are very unreliable narrators, which means the opinions in this fic do not necessarily reflect mine and the way these characters act in certain situations are definitely not the way _I_ would act.

The more he tries to convince himself that, objectively speaking, there is nothing that can make things worse than they already are, the more his brain seems to be paralyzing him with the crippling fear and self-doubt that have been haunting him for the past month and a half.

He stares at himself in the mirror for a few minutes, wordlessly noticing all the little things he’s been too busy or drunk to notice for the past two years and that suddenly became more evident since he came back from the hospital. He softly runs a finger over some of the new scars, scars that weren’t there before, and he’s suddenly overcome with the temptation to make himself smaller and disappear.

Maybe he can make up good stories for those scars, since he doesn’t remember getting them at all.

Truth is, the past two years have been a blur.

(He really should’ve seen it coming.)

He wakes up from his haze when he hears an aggressive knock on his door and Izzy’s rough, loud voice yelling: “If you don’t get the hell out of your apartment in ten seconds I’m coming to get you and I better not find you passed out on the floor again.”

He sighs, resignation (and a little bit of shame) taking over any other feeling he might have, and slowly makes his way out of the bathroom, at least to fuck with Izzy for a little while.

When he opens the door, she’s standing there, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, and wearing a dress. He snorts.

“Hell, Hartley, you even _look_ like a girl.” He says, as bitterly as possible, hoping that maybe if he insults her enough times she’ll leave him alone.

She sneers, instead. Of course.

“Not gonna work, asshole.” She says, smirking.

“Why do you even want me to go there.” He complains, for the millionth time that month, closing the door behind himself. Izzy’s face makes him regret asking that at all..

“Because even though I have left your sorry ass alone for the past two years during New Year’s Eve,” she says, the same way she has replied every time he asked,  “I refuse to let you sit through yet another holiday by yourself, getting drunk and having a pity-fest. Look, I’m not the healthiest person in the world–”

“No shit.” He says, and she smacks his arm.

“–but I’ve never tried to kill myself, which automatically makes me healthier than you. You have been… this, this _thing_ for so long that it _almost_ makes me feel sorry for you. And it has to stop. And you’re not going to stop it so, like everything else, I have to do it for you.”

She’s not that far off the truth, which is to be expected: after all, she prides herself in knowing him better than he knows himself, a fact that confuses him to no end; he definitely would never pride himself in such thing, and that is probably the reason he doesn’t know himself that well.

There are two things he knows about himself, though: he’s a selfish piece of trash, and hiding is his area of expertise. He knows Izzy has been worried sick about him ever since the thing happened, as much as she refuses to admit it, but, again, he hides. He hides from enemies and friends alike. He has been hiding behind his drinking problem and PTSD and the divorce for the past two years.

He has been hiding behind his (sadly) unsuccessful suicide attempt for the past month and a half.

As much as she has tried to, not even Izzy has been able to pull him out of hiding. Until today.

He wishes he had it in him to feel more bad about it, but any hints of remorse or guilt washed away when she found him passed out on the floor in the middle of November after he overdosed on anti-depressants and beer and, instead of apologizing or trying to excuse his actions, he had asked her not to tell his ex-wife about this little mishap.

She only yelled at him afterwards. Three security guards had to escort her outside.

He wishes he felt more bad about trying to kill himself. He really does.

“I don’t even know why you bother,” he mutters, as they walk towards the elevator, “I’m just going to sit by myself, get drunk, embarrass you in front of your fancy SHIELD friends, and she’s gonna be there which means I’m also going to embarrass _her_ in front of her fancy SHIELD friends–”

“Hunter, just… Just shut up. Shut up now.” She says, interrupting him. He holds his hands up in a surrender gesture. “You have been a mess for so long that you no longer remember what it’s like not to be a mess, and I need it to change.”

“But _why_?” He has to ask, again, because even after all these years he still doesn’t understand how or why Izzy hasn’t given up on him. This woman currently wearing a fancy dress and red lipstick has a lot of faith in him (which is, in itself, an entirely foreign concept for him), and she somehow has managed to stand by him for years and years with minimal murder attempts.

“Because, and I will murder you if you ever tell this to anybody, I care about you. Apparently more than you do. And seeing you slowly kill yourself after actually _attempting_ to kill yourself is killing _me_ ,” she says, softly, “and I can promise you, if I’m gonna die it sure as hell won’t be because of you.”

He drops his insensitive person act for a few seconds and hugs her tightly. She stands still.

“Hunter, what are you doing.”

“I am appreciating you, Izzy.” He mumbles onto her shoulder. She hugs him back, and it’s a little awkward and strained because they _have_ been awkward and strained, but it feels right.

When she drags him into the elevator, he doesn’t complain much. That’s the most he’ll give her.

-o-

(When she walks into his apartment, unannounced, holding grocery bags and her copy of his keys, he’s sitting on the couch, staring at the empty wall.

He’s been doing that for the past week. The realization that seeing him like this is not as surprising as it should be makes her chest ache.

“I’m hosting a New Year’s Eve party,” she announces, not looking at him, “and you’re coming.”

It’s the first time he’s really looked at her since he came back from the hospital and he looks terrified, and four weeks ago she would’ve never expected that look coming from him but if there is anything she’s learned from this experience is that, apparently, she doesn’t know him as well as she thought.

This is her last desperate attempt to break him out of that shell he’s hiding in.

“No, I’m not.” He says, his voice sounding as terrified as he looks. For a moment, she wants to give this thing up, let him have some more space but, as much as he needs this, she needs it too. She’s not doing this for him only.

It sounds selfish. It probably is.

“Yes, you are.” She says, as harsh as she can muster, even if she’s not really feeling it, just to make sure he understands it’s not something they’re discussing, and now he’s back at not looking at her.

“Why?” He asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper, and even though the way he won’t stop staring at the wall is breaking her heart, not even _that_ is enough to erase the image of his almost lifeless body lying on the bathroom floor. That’s the only thing that keeps her going.

“Because,” she says, tries to keep her voice steady, “you tried to kill yourself three weeks ago. And since we came back from the hospital, the only thing you’ve done is stare at that damn wall and, look, I’m not a doctor or anything but I’m pretty sure that’s not what you’re supposed to do after a suicide attempt–”

“Izzy,” he says, once again, “please don’t do this to me.”

It really breaks her heart.

“You did this to yourself, you know.” She answers, drops the grocery bags on top of the kitchen table and leaves before she can say something she’ll regret.

When she closes the front door behind herself, she cries.)

-o-

Izzy’s house looks decent enough for someone who barely spends any time in it. It’s all clean and shiny and there’s a “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” sign hanging from the living room ceiling and a disinterested not-really-a-girlfriend-shut-up-Hunter hanging by the couch.

“Hunter,” she says, not looking at him, twirling her cigarette between her very long fingers. He nods.

“Hand,” he replies, politely, and that’s the most they’ll say to each other for the night. He doesn’t mind that much; Victoria Hand is the most intimidating woman he has met, so the less he has to speak to her, the better.

“You’re cleaning the ashes off, Victoria,” Izzy says, seriously, before dragging Lance by the arm into the kitchen (he thinks he might’ve heard Victoria snorting in response, but he’s not entirely sure she’s capable of feeling joy, so he settles by thinking it’s an illusion).

“You’re letting her smoke on your white couch,” he remarks as nonchalantly as possible once they reach the kitchen. Izzy shrugs, opens the fridge and grabs a beer for herself, before sitting on top of her kitchen table.

She doesn’t even try to offer him a beer. He doesn’t ask for one, he knows she won’t give it to him.

“You just brought me here to help you with the stuffing, didn’t you?” he asks, half-jokingly, and she smirks at him before taking another gulp of beer and grabbing a knife.

“That, and to make sure you don’t down an entire bottle of Zoloft while I’m over here making out with Vic,” she answers casually, aggressively chopping carrots and avoiding his gaze.

Her voice breaks almost imperceptibly when she mentions the antidepressants and, there it is, the guilt he didn’t know he was still capable of feeling.

“Iz…” he starts off, but doesn’t know what to say. She smiles weakly but still avoids looking at him.

“You’re here now, aren’t you?” she asks. He nods. “That’s all I need. For now. Well, that and help with the dressing.”

“You’d think your girlfriend would help out with that,” he mutters, reluctantly grabbing a spoon.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” she says, but her smile transforms into a grin he rarely ever sees anymore when she says: “Plus, she’s busy staining my white couch.”

-o-

(“The risk of death with the dosage Mr. Hunter took wasn’t very high on its own, but the drug-and-beer combination might’ve done it,” the doctor says, staring at the chart in her hands. Izzy sits in the waiting room, Victoria next to her. “We’re pumping his stomach right now, and we’re keeping him on suicide watch for the next 72 hours to determine whether we should check him into a psych ward for a while or whether he’ll be fit to leave.”

“Can I see him?” Izzy asks, quickly, and when the doctor gives her one of those ‘are you serious?’ looks, she clears her throat, “I mean, when you’re done. With the, um, stomach pumping thing.”

“I suppose you can, once the procedure is done and he’s awake.” She answers.

She places the chart under her arm and finally looks at both Izzy and Victoria, a strange, somber look on her face. Izzy feels her stomach drop.

“Look,” the doctor starts, “given the circumstances Mr. Hunter was brought in, and given that you have stated you’re very close friends with him, I must ask if you noticed any mood changes, odd behaviors or just about any red flags lately. Anything that could give our psych team any hints as to what could’ve possibly caused this suicide attempt.”

She didn’t.

Once the doctor leaves, Izzy cries in Victoria’s shoulder.

“This isn’t your fault, you know.” Victoria whispers into her hair, as body-wracking sobs won’t stop coming out.

As much as she tries to convince herself that it isn’t her fault, she can’t.

She didn’t notice.)

-o-

He warns her that as soon as the guests start arriving, he’ll retreat to her room, and it feels like a child asking his mum for permission not to interact with strangers; it should be unnecessary, but for some reason it’s not. It’s not a coincidence she reminds him of his mother.

She agrees, only because she doesn’t have anything to reply with when he says: “I’m only here because you’re afraid I’ll try and off myself again, what with the festive cheer reminding me of how fucking lonely I always am, and all, but if I really wanted to do that I would’ve never agreed to come here, so...”

It’s a relief, at least, that he now knows he doesn’t have to see _her_. After all he’s been through lately, the last thing he wants to do is have Bobbi see the mess he became ever since she left him. It might sound childish, he’s aware, but there aren’t many things that aren’t childish for him anymore. Right now, he would really like to brood by himself while Izzy is busy downstairs playing house with his not-girlfriend.

He wonders for a few moments if Bobbi knows. He then realizes that, with her skills, she probably does, even if Izzy didn’t tell her.

Somehow, the mere thought that she might know he tried to kill himself brings him more shame in 30 seconds than it has in a month and a half.

So he’s still capable of feeling things. Huh.

The moment the bell rings for the first time, he grabs a beer and makes his way upstairs, and pretends not to notice Izzy’s scoff when she hears the fridge’s door closing.

Compared to the past two years, this New Year’s Eve doesn’t seem so bad.

-o-

(It’s the first New Year’s Eve he’s gonna spend with somebody other than himself in the past two years. The last time he hadn’t been alone for New Year’s, he had been the host of the party. With Bobbi. Back when they still pretending to have a functional marriage.

Back then, he could willingly keep his nightmares at bay. The sound of fireworks during Christmas didn’t startle him. There were no pills on his nightstand.

It really feels like a lifetime ago, sometimes.

He tries to convince himself that this party is not a big deal, that if socializing wasn’t hard or mortifying to him a while ago it can’t be that difficult now, that these people don’t know he had to spend a week and a half in a psych ward after a suicide attempt.

Then, he looks at himself in the mirror, and he can only see scars and fear and a man too ashamed to look at himself in the eye.

The more the days pass, the less he can look at himself in the mirror.

By Christmas, his mirror is covered with a blanket. That way, he can pretend he doesn’t notice the way his face only gives away that he’s, after all, nothing more but a frightened child.)

-o-

At 10:30, Izzy casually walks by the guest room to check on him (read: make sure he hasn’t jumped off the window) for the third time since the party started, and it’s starting to get a little unnerving.

The fireworks aren’t making it any easier. His nightmares include a lot of gunfire lately. He feels like a small, terrified dog, hiding under the blankets like it will, somehow, shield him from any damage.

“How’re you holding up?” Izzy asks, just like she has the past three times and, once again, he huffs and points at his empty beer bottle with the remote control he’s holding, at least to pretend he’s feeling more like himself.

“Well, I’m not drunk enough, evidently,” he complains, and it comes out sounding more fake than intended. She takes a seat on the edge of the bed, facing him, and she doesn’t say a word.

A month and a half ago, she did the same thing on his hospital bed.

There was a lot more yelling back then. Those security guards were ruthless.

“When I met you I would’ve never thought I’d seen you turn down the chance to party and hit on girls, but look at you.” She says, more solemn than he’s used to, and he only stares at her.

“You just want to say you’re happy I’m alive, don’t you.” He finally retorts, dry and quick, hoping she’ll leave him alone soon to watch some more TV.

“I want to talk to you,” she says in response, and there go his hopes of having some more quiet, “ _really_ talk to you. Like we haven’t in months.”

“I thought you were hosting the party?”

“Victoria is taking care of that. And that’s not– don’t change the subject on me.”

“I’m not changing the subject.” He tries to say. She doesn’t buy it.

“Yes, you are. I know that’s what you’re doing. That’s all you do lately.” She replies, bitterly, and he notices she sounds tired and resigned but he avoids her gaze to avoid thinking about that too. “We haven’t talked in fucking _months_ , Hunter. You’re my best friend and you tried to fucking _kill yourself_ four months ago and _we haven’t fucking talked about it_!”

“Izzy–” he tries, because as much as he claims not to know himself, he sadly knows her very well.

He’s not being very fair to her, he knows. Maybe they should talk about it. Maybe she needs it. Maybe he shouldn’t be selfish for once.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to relive those days. He’d rather put up with another Izzy explosion than having to talk about the weight of the pill bottle in his hand and the tears on his face and the beer spilled on his bathroom floor.

“No, fuck you, Hunter,” she snaps, and it’s spiteful and angry and he’s very terrified of what’s about to happen, “fuck you for not talking to me. You’re a selfish piece of shit, did you know that?”

“Oh, that’s just swell,” he says, as sarcastically as he can possibly be when his hands are shaking too hard to concentrate, “ _I_ am the selfish piece of shit when _you_ were the one who didn’t bloody notice how bad I was getting. Fuck off, Isabelle. Did you only bring me here to yell at me? Don’t you have your glorified booty call for that?”

That’s low. He knows it’s low. He knows what to say to make her angrier, and he also knows he shouldn’t pick this specific fight but his self-preservation instinct seems to have flown off the window the moment he grabbed the bottle of pills after waking up from that nightmare.

He never did tell her his nightmare involved her dying because of something he did (or didn’t do, the details are fuzzy).

Right now, he doesn’t think he ever will.

“I didn’t notice how bad you were getting because you haven’t been a real person since the divorce!” She yells at him, waking him up from his momentary reverie, “I can’t fucking talk to you anymore. All we’ve been doing for the past two years is discuss missions and money and some small talk in-between. You can call Victoria a glorified booty call all you want but you are the glorified best friend in this situation.”

And _that’s_ low, and she knows it’s low. He stops to stare at her, disbelief and hurt all over his face, and her anger seems to dissipate for a moment.

She leaves the room before he can say anything else. Right now, it’s probably the wisest decision she can take.

-o-

(When Izzy dies, the look on her face is of pure fear and disappointment.

When he wakes up, he reaches for the bottle of pills on his nightstand; fifteen pills should keep him asleep long enough but, just in case they don’t, he drinks half a bottle of beer.

When Izzy finds him, lying on the bathroom floor, cold and sweating and muttering words that don’t exist, he’s finally able to fall back asleep.)

-o-

At 11, she walks by the guest room again, walks in with her hands up. He smiles briefly.

“We do need to talk, you know,” she says, this time more gentle, “really talk. No yelling, I promise.”

“You just said everything you needed to say,” he says, “maybe not in the way you wanted to but... “

“I didn’t.”

“Isabelle–”

“I’ve always known you’re gonna die before I do, you know,” she interrupts him, “every single time you got in front of a fucking bullet when I wasn’t watching my back, all those times you got into bar fights, the time we got into that really scary car crash, all those times all I kept thinking was how I was gonna have to attend your fucking funeral.”

“Iz–”

“No, listen to me. I’ve always known you’re gonna die before I do and I thought I was okay with it and maybe I would speak at your funeral and say how infuriating you were and how you died a hero’s death or whatever. That’s what I thought would happen. You’d die saving people, probably even saving me, I don’t know. Not like this, Lance. Not because of some stupid fucking nightmare.”

There are silent tears rolling down her cheeks, and he’s probably crying too, he’s not sure.

He wraps his arms around her and they cry together.

When he apologizes, she only says: “don’t,” and holds him tighter.

-o-

(“So…” Bobbi says, trying and failing to seem uninterested. Izzy’s face is paler than usual, and she’s got heavy bags under her eyes. When she frowns, Bobbi doesn’t know if she was the one who caused it, or if it’s just the circumstances.

“Don’t.” Izzy says, harsher than usual. Bobbi gives up any pretense and goes straight to the point.

“I need to know how he’s doing, Iz, please.” She pleads, and Izzy’s face softens for a moment.

She has to struggle sometimes to remind herself that she’s not the only person in the world who cares about Lance. She knows the circumstances surrounding the divorce; it was never a lack of love. They loved each other. They  _love_ each other. She knows Bobbi cares, she can’t not.

A small, bitter part of her wants to ask Bobbi why couldn’t she care more a few months ago, and Izzy tries to ignore it; she knows she’s projecting her guilt onto Bobbi. After all, she’s the one who was close to Lance, she’s the one who should’ve noticed and cared.

“He’s not dead.” Izzy snaps, without meaning to. Bobbi notices this and grabs Izzy’s arm, pulls her closer. Izzy glares at her. “I’m telling you, don’t.”

“I can’t ask him myself, you know that,” Bobbi whispers, “I can’t do that to him, but I need to know.”

“He’s not dead, Bobbi.”

“I know he’s not dead!” Bobbi then says, louder than she should’ve, and a handful of SHIELD operatives turn to look at them. This time, it’s Izzy’s turn to grab her arm and pull her into the nearest empty room.

“You are not entitled to any information and anything I say to you is just me being nice, and at this point I thought you knew that,” Izzy says, “and if I haven’t told you to go ask him yourself it’s purely because of his wellbeing. But how he’s doing is none of your concern.”

“Apparently it’s not yours, either,” Bobbi replies, bitterly, and Izzy glares at her.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I couldn’t notice he was suicidal because we can’t be around each other and you’re well aware,” Bobbi snaps, “but if you care about him as much as you say you do, then why didn’t you notice, huh?”

“You think this isn’t fucking killing me? You think I don’t feel guilty enough without you having to point it out? I am a terrible best friend, I didn’t notice, of course I didn’t–”

“Izzy,” Bobbi interrupts her, softer this time, and takes a few tentative steps towards her. Izzy only stands there, staring at the floor.

None of this has been easy on either of them. They know. They have to yell at each other because they can’t do anything else.

“I’m sorry,” Bobbi tries, “This is not your fault. I’m sorry.”

“That’s what Victoria’s been telling me.” Izzy mutters. Bobbi closes the gap between her, wraps her arms around Izzy’s shoulder.

“You know, half of the time I didn’t notice what was going on inside his head either.”)

-o-

At 11:55, Bobbi walks into his room, and she looks exactly like she looked like that night at the pier. His breath hitches.

“Hi,” she says, rubbing her left arm with her right hand, like she does when she’s nervous, and she’s wearing a golden dress and her hair is falling down her shoulders in that effortless way she always managed to pull off.

It’s probably Izzy’s fault she’s there. He mentally curses his best friend.

“Hi,” he says, softly.

She sits in the same spot Izzy sat an hour and a half ago, but doesn’t seem about to blow off on him, and that’s a welcome change from the last time they saw each other.

“You’re not gonna yell at me, are you?” He asks anyway, and she snorts. He grins; her laugh did always make him smile.

“Like Izzy just did? Nah,” she says, “I just– The party was boring. And… I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Ah, so you heard,” he says. He’s not sure if he means his fight with Izzy or his suicide attempt. Maybe he means both.

“I did,” she confirms, and he knows she means both things too.

He knows she’s not there to discuss his fight with Izzy. He sighs.

“Was it Izzy?” He asks, though he knows it wasn’t, he made Izzy promise; she can be many things but she never breaks a promise.

“Of course it wasn’t,” Bobbi says, matter-of-factly, and he rolls his eyes.

“Of course.”

She stays with him until midnight. When she clock strikes twelve, she kisses his cheek.

They smoke, together, on the fire escape, until the sun rises.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a completely different thing (for real, it was just gonna be New Year's Huntingbird fluff) but then it got away from me and it ended up being all about Lance and Izzy's friendship and wow, I'm really sorry.
> 
> Thanks to Rach for being an awesome beta and to Emily because she'll get the title of this fic. I'm sorry, both of you.


End file.
